


that's amore

by isles



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Class Differences, Contemporary Rome, Italy, M/M, Modern Royalty, Roman Holiday AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-01
Updated: 2015-06-05
Packaged: 2018-03-04 21:46:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 17,909
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3091655
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/isles/pseuds/isles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On a diplomatic visit to Rome, Prince Marco grows tired of royal duties and decides to explore the city on his own. That night he meets an American journalist and decides he can let his entourage worry for a while and let himself live a little, just this once.</p><p>Set in contemporary Rome, based on the 1953 movie.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. clock king

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the first time, the crown prince of Jinae was left to his own devices. No entourage, no looming parents, no tight schedules, no idea where he would spend the night or even the next five minutes. He had never felt better.

Checking into hotels was always a long affair. The manager still wasn’t done welcoming Marco with wide eyes and exaggerated gesturing, shaking his hand much longer than necessary and reiterating what an honor it was to be the prince of Jinae’s choice of accommodation, and that there was absolutely  _nothing_  he couldn’t ask of for as he long as he chose to stay. Between that and waiting for Marco's entire staff to be ready to move to their rooms, he was more than ready to hightail it into bed and sleep off at least some of the exhaustion of the flight before he had to go be his charming self in public some more.

A page helped him hoist his luggage to his suite. The door had barely closed behind them before there was another knock on his door, followed by a deep voice. “Mr Bodt?”

Marco shut his eyes. “Come in,” he called.

Mike frowned at the sight of Marco sprawled out on the bed in his good clothes, no doubt wrinkling them beyond any hope. “You’ve got the ball later today,” Mike said. “You do remember that?”

Marco sighed and rubbed his eyes. “Stop calling it a ball.”

“It is one. You still have to give your okay for the outfit and you should go through the list of names again, just in case. Hannes has something to go over with you as well.”

Marco sat up on the bed and planted his feet on the floor, leaning forward on his knees and pointedly staring at the floor as Mike carried on.

“And remember not to stay up later than you have to tonight, you have a photo op with that Giannini woman tomorrow morning.” Mike continued listing off events and people, and there was a weird feeling in Marco’s chest that he knew very well.

“Got it?” Mike asked.

Marco smiled. “Absolutely.” 

 

* * *

 

 

It was hard to keep his focus up enough to greet everybody, his head swimming as he made his rounds of nobles and politicians and the occasional actor, important Italian personalities he could barely tell apart. It felt like it went on for hours, and Marco felt that suffocating feeling again. He barely listened to his own words as he made small talk.

“Smile,” Mike said, leaning into him to speak into his ear. “You’re being distant.”

“I’m being perfectly polite,” Marco said quietly.

Mike gave him a look, and Marco turned away. A bitter feeling settled in his stomach, not the hot, mad anger that sends you into a tantrum and results in knocked over tables and broken hotel furniture, as it often did when he was a child, the kind that propelled him into action. Instead it rooted him to the spot, made it hard to think straight, to breathe normally. He was used to swallowing his anger instead of facing it head on, but this was different. It spread in his chest and stomach and clouded his head, made him dizzy. If he didn’t leave the room, the building, the damn planet right then and there he would burst. His body would disassemble itself and scatter over the floor in parts, leave a heap of royal clothes and royal bones for the hotel staff to clean up.

Mike’s voice snapped into his thoughts. “Are you alright?” His wrinkled forehead was almost unreal before Marco’s eyes.

“I’ll go outside for a moment,” Marco said and breathed slowly through his nose, focused on keeping his voice steady, “if it’s alright.”

He walked evenly through crowds towards the doors of the hall and then flew down the corridor as soon as he was out of sight, ignoring the elevator in favor of the stairs, and lunged down the steps in a mad dash until he was finally, finally outside. He leaned against the wall, breathing hard, sucking hot afternoon air into his lungs, and his head started to clear.

Someone walked out after him, sidling up next to where he was leaning against the wall. Marco didn’t move.

“Hey, what’s wrong?” It was Mina’s voice, calm and pleasant as always, if a little breathy. Of course Mike would send Mina. She was his consultant, always with that edge of well-intentioned condescension to her voice.

Marco said nothing. He stood there in the hotel entrance, facing a large street, a vast blue evening sky, a city that surpassed New York City in size, and felt more backed into a corner than ever.

 

* * *

 

 

Six hours later, Marco stepped out of the doorway into cool night air with a few thousand Euros of hard cash buried deep in his pocket.

He had always been good at remaining levelheaded in the rush of things, he reminded himself, at keeping his cool even with hundreds of eyes trained on him. He managed to keep a smooth smile in front of cameras, never slipping as they took his picture. He was good at making decisions when the air was so charged with urgency even his staff was scrambling to keep it together. Some choices were easier made than others, but he trusted his gut, and this time was no different.

The occasional noise of a car in the distance broke the stillness. Some of the shops kept their light on during the night, washing the streets in a soft golden glow, artificial in a way that was beautiful but eerie. It looked almost overdone, like a scene from a video game, or a Pixar movie.

Marco breathed out, feeling a hundred times lighter as the air left his lungs and his chest filled with giddiness.

 

• • •

 

Jean loved driving at night in this city when the roads were almost clear of other cars, even in the center. It felt like visiting a giant museum, driving past deserted tourist attractions like the apocalypse had recently happened. It was quiet and soothing, and he drove much more recklessly than he should have.

He parked near Villa Borghese and walked the short distance to the Spanish Steps. Jean wandered down them slowly, alone safe for a couple lounging on the first few steps, sharing what looked like cannoli siciliani. The sight made Jean’s stomach ache for something sweet. It was barely past two, one or two cafés had to be open still.

Rome at night was quiet. He loved it. You had to wait until one, perhaps two in the morning for the masses of tourists to subside, and maybe not choose a weekend for your trip when locals would frequent clubs and, unlike the tourists, stay out for fancy dinners until late at night, as Italians were prone to do. But even then Rome at night was nothing like you would expect. It was such a contrast to how impossibly crowded it was in the daylight.

Jean ambled through the streets aimlessly, half-heartedly checking if any of the cafés he passed weren’t closed. He found an open ice cream shop near the Trevi Fountain, one of his favorite places to be during the night, and dwelled there for a while. He had been in Rome for less than six months, working at The American Magazine and “collecting experience”, as his boss back in New York had put it before informing him of the transfer. Six months were enough to come to terms with the fact that the amount of tourists didn’t lessen significantly during any time of the year. Whenever Jean felt like the walls of his studio were caving in on him, but didn’t like the thought of facing smothering amounts of people, he’d take a stroll through the city at night. The only people you were likely to meet were residents or lovers, which, Jean was reluctant to admit, had a charm of its own.

When he made his way back to his car, there was a boy on the Spanish Steps, right in the center, sitting with his hands on his knees and taking in his surroundings. As Jean got closer, he could make out a boyish sort of joy on his features, a nice face with full lips and big, almond-shaped eyes. He couldn’t be much older or younger than him. His body was athletic and clad in a thin sweatshirt, dark slacks and dress shoes.

He looked every bit the part of an Italian twenty-something, and yet he seemed foreign, out of place somehow on the steps, observing the night with wide eyes. For one, his attire wasn’t really weather-appropriate. In June the nights were still cold in Rome. And his entire demeanor was more that of a tourist, all slack-jawed and fascinated, but what tourist would go out on his own at half past two on a Tuesday night? And who, for the love of god, sat smack in the middle of the Spanish Steps like the king of the world?

Jean was halfway up the steps  when the guy’s eyes met his. Jean didn’t look away. The unreal feeling that came with the night air made him braver, careless, curious.

The guy's brows raised in interest, eyes beautiful and clear, everything about his body language open, inviting. He smiled, and Jean smiled back just a little.

“Ciao,” he said in an accent that was very clearly Italian. Jean was just a few steps away. The boy scooted over on the steps and looked up, tapped the space next to him. Jean sat down despite himself.

“Hey,” Jean said, and left it at that. He looked away to stare over Via del Corso, waiting for the boy to continue the conversation. He’d been the one to start it after all.

“Non sei italiano,” the boy remarked.  _You’re not Italian._  Jean still felt his eyes on his face.

“Americano,” Jean said, looking back at him.

“Oh, you are?” the boy asked with a hint of a smile. His English was accent-free.

Jean couldn’t hide his puzzlement. “You’re not Italian?”

The guy broke eye contact and shrugged. “Not exactly. I haven’t been to the country much. This is my first time seeing Rome.”

Jean chuckled. “So you decided to sit on the Spanish Steps in the middle of the night, all by yourself?”

He nodded, unwavering. “Yes.”

Not knowing what to say, Jean just shook his head and smiled. He looked back up at the guy, who just stared on curiously. Jean extended a hand. “Jean, piacere.”  _It’s a pleasure._

“Marco,” the boy said, taking his hand. “What are  _you_ doing out here in the middle of the night, then?”

“Taking a walk,” Jean said without hesitating. It was the truth. “It’s different at night. Way less people around.”

“Oh yeah?” Marco’s eyes grew wide. “What’s it like?”

Jean raised his eyebrows. “What, did you just get here?”

“Sort of,” Marco said, grinning. “So?”

“It’s crowded,” Jean answered. “And sunny and loud and very nice to look at.”

Marco looked intrigued, his mouth curling up into a grin. “How long have you been here?”

“Six months.”

“Oh, not a tourist then?”

Jean smiled, giving a lopsided shrug. “Depends on who you ask, I guess.”

They sat in a comfortable quiet for a bit as they waited for nothing at all.

“Listen,” Marco said after a while, tone light. “You wanna pull an all-nighter, just go see stuff and do things and walk around a little? See the sunrise and all that stuff?”

The idea sounded promising. For a moment, Jean let himself contemplate it. But he had work in the morning. “I wish,” Jean said. “I have to get up early. Sorry.”

“Oh,” Marco said, and his expression fell.

“We’ll meet up tomorrow if you want,” Jean said, quickly, placing a hand on Marco’s arm without thinking. “You have a hotel to go back to, right?”

“I… yeah.” Marco’s smile was strained.

When Jean went to pull out his phone, Marco handed him his own with the new contact screen already open. Jean let his hand sink to his side and obliged, typed in his information, then handed the phone back with a “Text me your number.”

He was rewarded with a charming smile, all teeth. “See you tomorrow, Jean,” Marco said. He got up before Jean could react, leaving him to call a belated “Bye” after the boy’s retreating form.

 

• • •

 

Marco had visited a lot of European capitals on his tour of the continent, cities and countries he’d barely seen a thing of between diplomatic meetings and press conferences and bodyguards watching his every step, but even so he was certain that this city had to be the prettiest by far. He chanced one or two looks over his shoulder as he walked down the Spanish Steps, the sight of the beautiful man he’d just met sparking a wave of excitement in his chest. Dates with boys were another thing princes weren’t allowed to have.

For the first time, the crown prince of Jinae was left to his own devices. No entourage, no looming parents, no tight schedules, no idea where he would spend the night or even the next five minutes. He had never felt better.

He checked in under a false name at the first hotel he found, picking a nice, normal room, spacious but affordable. After marveling at the view from his window for a while, Marco headed to the bathroom and stood under the shower, let the water pelt his skin as he pressed his hands against the damp tiles. The hotness of the shower made him tired, adrenaline now gone from his bloodstream, and he tumbled into bed, naked as he was. He’d never slept naked before. There were too many people walking in and out of his room. Marco buried deep into the sheets and fell asleep almost instantly, for once not a single care on his mind to keep him awake.

 

• • •

 

Jean opened his eyes, then closed them quickly. Bright sunlight slanted across his face through the blinds. Then, with a start, he bolted upright, eyeing his clock where glowing numbers signaled to him that he was late, late, late. In a quick dance around the room he slipped into whatever clothes he first picked off the floor, then stepped into the bathroom where his pallid face squinted back at him from the mirror. His right cheek was red and crinkled from where he’d fallen asleep with his hair caught between his face and the pillow. Jean grabbed a bottle of hair gel and tried to salvage what he could for all of fifteen seconds before he gave up and moved on to brushing his teeth in a hurry and cursing like a sailor all throughout, always keeping his watch in sight. As the digits flicked to 12:30, he gave his reflection a final look of resignation and ran one last desperate hand through his hair before hurrying out the door. He was so fired.

He breezed into work with an innocent smile plastered on his face.

“Don’t you look nice,” Sasha commented, raising her eyebrows as she took in his disheveled appearance.

“It’s the drive here,” Jean lied and inclined his head to where his motorbike was parked outside, smile wavering just slightly. He settled in his chair with a sinking feeling and pulled out his phone, unlocking the screen to read his notifications.

**Missed alarm (1) 10:15  
don’t you fucking dare snooze this you dumb asshole**

**Appointments today: 11:00  
prince’s press conference**

He grumbled, swiping down to his missed messages.

**From: _Unknown Number_  
Hey, this is Marco! Forgot to give you my number last night.**

**From: _Levi Ackerman_**  
**Good news for you, bad news for me. Prince’s conference has been postponed. See link. Come into work at 2pm. Write something short about his tour of Europe that we can use instead in case the conference is canceled all together.**

Jean’s jaw dropped. He clicked the link, feeling a giant grin spread over his face as the news article came into view, stating that Prince Marco Bodt had fallen ill and had to cancel all appointments indefinitely. Then he spotted the photo of the prince and did a double-take, his face falling. He clicked the gallery, his heart beating faster with every photograph he viewed. It was him. Barely recognizable with slicked back hair and in a fine suit, but the freckles gave him away.

_What the hell._

 

* * *

 

 

“An exclusive interview,” Levi echoed, voice dripping with disbelief.

“Or something like it,” Jean said.

Levi leaned forward. “With the prince of Jinae.”

“Yes.”

“Jean.” Levi let out a long-suffering exhale. “I know this job is boring you, but if you go around talking about exclusive interviews with princes, people will expect an exclusive interview with a prince. This is an American magazine for a bunch of expatriates in Rome. There is no reason for the prince to give us an interview. Not to mention that we don’t have the money to pay him.”

Jean chewed on his lip. “I thought I would try proposing it anyway.”

“So now you’ll try to sell the story,” Levi said, matter-of-factly. He turned his attention back to the computer screen.

“I guess.”

“Then why are you still talking to me about it?”

Jean scoffed. “I need your help, you know that. Help me find someone willing to buy it. We’ll split 60-40. And this story is basically a sure thing,” he added eagerly. “I just need a few days half-off to get it rolling.”

Levi narrowed his eyes at him. “Get what going, exactly?”

“It’s complicated.”

Levi studied him for a second, expression blank as ever. Then he leaned back in his chair. “I will take the money out of your pay if nothing comes off it.”

“Okay,” Jean said, grinning as he left his editor’s office and hightailed it to his cubicle. He punched in the words in a breathless rush, heartbeat loud in his ears.

**To: _Marco_  
hey there. i’m off work. are you free now?**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for reading! i live in rome and i've seen most of the places in this story, but if you notice inconsistencies, don't hesitate to let me know!
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> [Villa Borghese](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Villa_Borghese_gardens)  
> [Spanish Steps and Piazza di Spagna](http://www.italyguides.it/us/roma/spanish_steps.htm)  
> [Trevi Fountain](http://www.italyguides.it/us/roma/trevi.htm)


	2. prosecco for lunch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Do you always drink prosecco for lunch?” he asked.
> 
> “Only on special occasions.”

When Marco was six, he decided to give himself a haircut. His mother had immediately called her hair dresser over, who had made short shrift of the mess on his head. “As good as new,” he’d said, and Marco had felt very small.

At sixteen he’d shaved his head and wasn’t allowed to leave the house for a month. His parents concocted a story for anyone asking about his whereabouts at public events, something about a riding accident and a broken leg, and he was left to brood at home.

Marco frowned at his reflection, the formal mid-part, the hair that fell into his eyes now that he wasn’t gelling it back. He stood in front of a barbershop on a small side street where he had caught sight of himself in the shop windows, and decided breakfast could wait a little longer. Thick black strands of his hair fell to the floor and Marco pictured the faces his stylist would make. Snip, there went _mature_. There went _gentle_ and _pleasant_. There went _benevolent young prince, fit to represent the country_. If the new hair could help prevent people from recognizing him, all the better, although Marco hardly thought anyone would know who he was if they saw him in casual attire. He wasn’t Beyoncé.

He’d almost finished his cornetto when Jean’s text arrived. Marco smirked to himself and told him to meet him back at the Spanish Steps.

It was noon when he got there. The sun burned white and furious and had filled the square with hordes of tourists. Dull colors and shadowed buildings had been replaced by a dramatic display of rosé and terracotta, a mosaic of warm colors and bright sunlight. Since the morning, the air had become thick with humidity, and Marco could feel his sweatshirt starting to stick to his chest. He rolled up his shirt sleeves and was suddenly very glad of the hotel bathroom’s broad selection of deodorants.

He spotted Jean near the palm trees to the left of the square where they’d agreed to meet.

“You weren’t lying,” Marco said as he approached.

Jean turned around, the beginnings of a smile on his face even as he frowned. “About what?” It took him a second, then it seemed to click. “You mean the people?”

Marco nodded. “This is crazy.”

“You got a haircut,” Jean noted, blinking.

Marco shrugged and laughed a little, running fingers through his hair. “Yeah. What do you think?”

“I like it,” Jean said, voice a little weird. He blinked again, looked away. “So, what do you want to see?”

“Everything. Anything.”

Jean laughed at that, a low chuckle. “Alright. Why don’t we start with the basics then? Have you eaten?”

“No, actually.” Marco blinked against the sun, and Jean shifted so his shadow shielded his face. “Thanks.” Marco smiled. “We could just sit at a sidewalk café and, you know,” he gestured around himself, “enjoy the atmosphere or something. And then we could get started on sightseeing and stuff.”

“Sure,” Jean said. “I know a place you would like.”

 

* * *

 

La Rocca was a picturesque little café, walls painted dark red and beige where they weren’t covered in ivy. Marco and Jean ended up getting the last free table outside amidst the hum and bustle of the city. A stressed-looking waitress hurried over to take their order. Marco spoke Italian with her, which earned him an impressed nod from Jean, and they sat watching the traffic go as they waited for their panini. It was busy, motorbikes and cars and taxis trying to worm their way through the crowd that had spread to the street from the sidewalks.

Their food came and Marco started into his with gusto.

“So, Marco,” Jean ventured after a while. “How long are you staying here?”

“I’m not sure. A few days, not too long.”

Jean cocked an eyebrow, a mischievous set to his mouth. “Don’t you have a ticket back?”

“Actually—” Marco began. He looked down at the laminated table top and back up, scratching his chin, stalling for time. “Actually I’m pretty much ditching class. This trip was kind of a spontaneous thing.”

Jean’s eyes widened a little. “So you just got on a flight to Rome,” he deadpanned. His expression gave away nothing.

“I… yeah. I just – I study International Relations.” It was the truth. Even if it hadn’t been, with the amount of diplomatic bullshit he’d had to endure and memorize over the past few weeks, he could probably have made his way through an essay or two. “And I _hate_ it. And just. Things are weird right now and I just made a quick decision and here I am.”

Jean’s eyes kept getting wider, a small smirk stealing its way onto his lips that Marco could tell he was trying to suppress. He smiled back, confused. “What?”

“That’s… well. Kind of crazy. And stupid. And also ballsy, but mostly stupid.” Jean scratched his nose, smiling openly now. “Why do you hate Public Relations so much?”

“It gets repetitive,” Marco replied without hesitating. “And it’s hard. It takes up my entire life. I can’t be – I can’t have a life outside of it, and it’s driving me nuts.”

Jean nodded, looking away. There was a brief silence in which neither knew what to say and they ate in quiet.

“Listen,” Jean finally piped up. “Do you want a drink?”

“Yes,” Marco retorted immediately.

Jean called to the waiter walking past, and Marco couldn’t help but grin at his pronunciation.

“Un caffè doppio per me, e…” _Double espresso for me, and…_ Jean looked at Marco.

“Un prosecco, grazie,” Marco said with a polite smile.

“Subito.” _Right away._ The waiter nodded once for emphasis and strode back inside.

When Marco turned back to Jean, he looked slightly taken aback. “Do you always drink prosecco for lunch?” he asked.

“Only on special occasions.” Marco smirked.

Jean laughed like it had been startled out of him.

“No pressure or anything,” Marco added in a mocking voice.

Jean snorted. “Please, I will give you the tour of your life.”

“You said it, not me.”

The waiter returned with their drinks, and Jean leaned back in his chair. He put sugar in his coffee and started stirring. “How’s the prosecco?”

“Good,” Marco said. “Really good.”

“Must be one hell of a stressful student life if you’re getting drunk already.”

“I’m not getting drunk,” Marco said quietly.

Jean looked down as he continued to stir absentmindedly. “You know,” he started, “if you hate it so much, can’t you do something else?”

“It’s complicated.”

“How so?”

“Just is.” Marco shrugged. “What about you, what do you do?”

There was a pause. “I’m an artist,” Jean said, sounding cautious. Maybe he was used to not being taken seriously with a job like that.

“Really? That’s interesting. What kind of artist?”

“I— paint.”

“Do you work for yourself?” Marco asked, pressing on.

“No, I work for an agency, kind of.”

Marco nodded. “And do you paint outside of work?”

“Um, sure.” Jean shrugged, looking embarassed. His phone beeped. Jean took it out to squint at the screen, the corners of his mouth turning downwards slightly.

“Everything alright?” Marco asked, nursing his prosecco.

“Yeah,” Jean said, distracted. “It’s just work.” He flicked a glance up at Marco and back down to his phone screen before pocketing it.

That set Marco on edge a little bit. He was being paranoid, he knew it, but he couldn’t risk being recognized. What if Jean had seen a photograph of his, or—

“Anyway,” Jean said, setting his hands on the table. “What do you want to do now?”

“Uh.” Marco hadn’t quite recovered from his moment of panic yet. “I don’t know? Make a suggestion.”

Jean scratched his forehead. “Well. We could walk to the Colosseum, it’s not that far. You know, to get the quintessential Rome experience out of the way.” He pursed his lips. “The line will be endless though.”

Marco smiled again. “I’ve got time.”

 

* * *

 

They walked a good fifteen minutes, passing ruins of ancient buildings on their way that Marco recognized as the Roman Forum. His eyes widened at the sight.

Jean nudged his shoulder with his own. “We’ll come back here later.”

Marco nodded eagerly, finally averting his eyes. He could see the Colosseum from where they stood, even if they had quite a bit left to walk. Jean stopped him as they passed the Metro B station and gestured at a bus that had just stopped in front of it. “We can take this the rest of the way. It’ll take two minutes or so.”

They got out of the cramped vehicle right in front of the massy stone construction, the entrance obscured by masses of people moving to stand in line, taking photos or milling around the food carts.

“The walls used to be white,” Jean said out of nowhere. Marco looked up at them, shielding his eyes from the sun. “And the outer brick wall thing that’s only half there now, it used to be complete. There was an earthquake in the middle ages and then people used it as a quarry for their own houses.”

“Actually, there were two earthquakes,” Marco said as Jean pulled him along to stand at the end of the line. “And the people using it as a quarry were noble families and the church. Even some of St. Peters was built like that.”

Jean smirked, impressed. “You know history?”

Marco scratched his chin. “Not willingly,” he admitted with a rueful grin. “My parents were strict.”

Jean nodded like he wasn’t at all surprised.

They reached the end of the line and followed everyone else inside, coming to stand on what used to be pathways to the arena’s seats. Jean leaned forward, resting his arms on the metal railing that separated the walking area from the ground. Next to them, a tour guide explained the Colosseum’s architecture to a group of tourists.

“Your turn,” Marco said. Jean looked at him askance with one eye closed against the glare of the sun. “You’re the one who lives here. Tell me all the trivia you know.”

“Well,” Jean started as they began making their round. “Contrary to popular belief, this thing is elliptical, not circular.”

Marco nodded.

Jean frowned as if in thought. “They used to stage fights in here. With gladiators and stuff.”

“And sometimes animals,” Marco added casually.

Jean glared at him. “And _wild_ animals from _Africa_ , mostly.” They stopped to let a girl take a picture of the guy that was leaning against the railing, blocking their way. When she was done, Jean moved closer to the railing and pointed at the ground. There wasn’t much left of the arena floor. “Those tunnel-like things down there used to be underground. They used them to bring in the animals and performers.”

“I thought they were holding spaces for equipment and stuff,” Marco said. He leaned over the railing, straining to get a closer look.

“No idea,” Jean said, “that’s what the tour guide said last time.” They started moving again as he continued. “I think he also said the shows and stuff that happened in here were mostly supposed to distract the people from political problems.”

“Well, that, and to make them feel closer to the imperator, since they were attending the same games he was and all,” Marco added absent-mindedly. Jean turned to look at him. “You know, to keep them from questioning him or viewing him as this abstract enemy.” Not all that different from what he’d been doing, Marco thought.

“Hm.” Jean scratched his cheek, averting his gaze. Marco smiled tiredly and waved him on.

They finished their round and then moved up a floor. It was four when they where back outside, where they wordlessly fell into step, trudging distractedly along until they were back at the Roman Forum. They ambled through the vestiges of what used to be civic buildings, standing silent in a valley. In the distance, the sky had taken on a pink tinge where gulls flew over a dome, and it looked like a postcard come alive.

They spent the rest of the day on Piazza di San Silvestro, a big square with long curved stone benches surrounded by large rosé buildings, that, as Jean told him, was one of his favorite places to just sit and think or get work done. They’d gotten ice cream on the way there and talked over gelati as they let the afternoon sun warm their skin. Marco felt giddy with it.

“You want to meet up again tomorrow?” Jean asked eventually. “I only work in the morning.”

Marco nodded, taking in Jean’s pretty amber eyes and his slightly tanned skin, the curve of his mouth. He couldn’t really say no to that face. Not that he wanted to.

“I had a lot of fun,” Jean said earnestly when he stood up to leave, resting a hand on Marco’s shoulder. “See you tomorrow, yeah?”

Marco grinned brightly, and they said goodbye like proper Romans, Jean’s stubble a little scratchy as they leaned in to kiss the air next to each other’s cheeks. The smell of Jean’s cologne up close made Marco’s heart beat a little faster, and he smiled to himself as he watched Jean go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> la rocca is a reference to "rocca's", the café from the movie. [this](http://pulcinellaerugantino.it/wp-content/uploads/2012/04/caffetteria-cornetti_crema_01.jpg) is a cornetto.
> 
>  
> 
> [Colosseum](http://www.italyguides.it/us/roma/colosseum.htm)  
> [Roman Forum](http://www.italyguides.it/us/roma/rome/ancient_roman_empire/roman_forum/roman_forum.htm)  
> [Piazza di San Silvestro](http://it.wikipedia.org/wiki/Piazza_di_San_Silvestro)
> 
>  
> 
> thank you for reading!


	3. modest royalty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It wasn't weird to be attracted to someone attractive.

They met up at five the next afternoon. Marco showed up wearing a light blue top, shorts and sneakers, a stark contrast to the polished, if casual attire from before.

“Do you usually change appearance every 24 hours?” Jean asked, eyebrows raised.

Marco grinned. “Maybe I will from now on.”

“Alright,” Jean said with a smirk. “You know how to ride a bicycle?”

There was silence for a moment, then: “Yes?”

“Good,” Jean said, and started walking towards the Metro station near the Spanish Steps. “Let’s rent some then.”

A man was guarding a bike rack right next to the subway entrance. Marco peered into the station curiously, gaping at the graffiti art on the walls while Jean scanned the bikes parked on the pavement in front of them and talked to the man in broken Italian.

Cars were relatively sparse in this part of Rome, crawling their way through the masses. It should make for enough space to maneuver bikes through the foot traffic. Jean made for a side street, waving for Marco to come along, then stopped to swing a leg over his bike. He turned to shoot Marco an expectant look over his shoulder. But Marco had mounted his bike already, and he sped past with a manic sort of joy on his face.

Some part of Jean’s brain acknowledged that a bicycle race through the more populated streets of Rome was a terrible idea, but he followed anyway, pedaling like mad and only narrowly missing a woman and her grocery bag. She shouted after him in an angry, booming voice. Meanwhile, Marco was having the time of his life, still far ahead of Jean and laughing like an idiot.

Marco drew through a sidewalk café, weaving between the tables and swerving just in time to avoid knocking one over.

“Marco,” Jean shouted, hysterical laughter rising in his chest. He didn’t notice the couple getting off a scooter on the sidewalk and nearly ran into them himself, but managed to outrace Marco in the process. “You don’t even know where we’re going!” Jean yelled at him, briefly turning around and catching a glimpse of his pink cheeks and the ridiculously focused look on his face. Marco still tried to catch up, but to no avail. Jean grinned to himself.

They had to slow down when they turned a corner, and eventually get off the bikes and wheel them on the sidewalk for a while. Marco shot Jean a sly grin as he dismounted.

“What are you so smug about?” Jean grumbled, still out of breath, aware that he was probably grinning just as hard. “We were lucky the police wasn’t around. We basically just almost killed a bunch of people,” he said dramatically.

Marco laughed, loud and high, but he just shrugged his shoulders and said nothing. After a moment he asked, “So where _are_ we going?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” Jean said, and Marco nudged his side lightly. “Woah.” Jean did his best to look affronted. “Careful there. I just almost toppled over.”

“That was the intention,” Marco deadpanned. Jean scoffed.

They wheeled past the Trevi Fountain. Marco almost came to a halt as he strained his neck, trying to get a look.

“Come on,” Jean said, patting his back. “We’ll get lost or trampled if we don’t move.”

They got back on their bikes shortly after, pedaling at an acceptable pace now. Jean avoided riding past any more sights and instead led them straight to Piazza Venezia.

“Wait,” Marco said when they got there. “Are we seeing the Colosseum again?”

Jean nodded seriously and started wheeling his bike through the traffic back onto the sidewalk, Marco on his heels. “Yeah. We’re doing a bike tour through the Colosseum.”

Marco narrowed his eyes at him. “Where are we going?” he repeated.

Jean shrugged cheerfully. Marco groaned.

They alternated between wheeling and riding their bikes for the rest of the way, then stopped in front of the stone gate of Oppian Hill park, a large expanse of green and good for bike-riding. Not as pretty as the Villa Borghese gardens, but not as full of tourists.

They rode quietly for a while, Marco ahead of Jean. Impossibly green trees with bulbous trunks slid past and warm, blowing air washed over them. Marco braked occasionally to have a closer look at something, Jean watching his bike as he strolled around. From one spot they had a good view of the Colosseum – Marco took one look at it, dropped his bike altogether and, after a moment of hesitance, sprawled on the ground beside it. He folded his arms under his head and closed his eyes. Jean sat down next to him wordlessly and started idly picking at grass blades.

“You okay, Marco?” he asked tentatively after ten minutes of silence.

“Yes,” Marco said, opening one eye against the sun and smiling up at Jean.

Jean nodded. He trusted that Marco would speak up if he felt like making conversation. For now, he was content unbuttoning the top two buttons on his shirt and lying down next to Marco.

When the heat got overwhelming, they chained their bikes to a sign post and moved to a shadowy spot under a tree where they sat leaning back against the trunk. This required them to sit closer. Marco sighed contentedly, eyes closed again. He smelled nice, like almond soap and sort of salty in a way that made Jean think of hot asphalt, and the sun had settled on his face and hair like molten gold. Jean tore his eyes away from Marco’s profile, a stupid fluttery feeling somewhere behind his ribcage as he closed his eyes as well.

This was all a work thing. It was. That didn't mean Jean wasn't allowed to be charmed. It wasn't weird to be attracted to someone attractive.

It was becoming all too evident that this guy was a person. A person who had a right to some privacy. A person who might be a rich prick, but maybe not the stuck-up asshole kind who seemed like he could do with a little reminder that he wasn’t the king of the world. He couldn’t write an article about Marco without his consent, he did have some semblance of journalistic integrity left. But how would he ever get Marco to agree? He should have told Marco he was a journalist right away, as he would have if he hadn't been put on the spot, afraid of scaring him off. Jean chewed on his lip. He hadn’t put nearly enough thought into his little idea before meeting up with Marco yesterday. Of course he could just write about their little stint, hire a photographer, snatch a photo here and there with his phone – but he couldn’t possibly justify it to himself. Especially not now that Marco was becoming so real.

Maybe a little more than real. Jean looked down at himself, his favorite shoes, the striped shirt that he was wearing, the one that made him look toned. He had dressed to impress. Like he was meeting his crush instead of crown prince Marco Bodt, heir apparent of Jinae, estimated net worth of 3 billion Euros.

“This is great,” Marco said, a little subdued. “Let’s never move again.”

“We’ll starve,” Jean said matter-of-factly.

“Okay,” Marco said, and left it at that.

He couldn’t just ignore just how much of an incredible, career-advancing opportunity this was. Maybe he could come clean at some point and get an interview out of it, and Marco wouldn’t hate him. Maybe he would. He was a prince with a ten-figure bank account, he would get over it, and Jean needed to pull his act together.

Marco’s head dropped to Jean’s shoulder not long after. Jean jerked a little at the contact and looked down to where Marco was breathing slowly, eyes closed, his mouth hanging slightly open. Jean suppressed a smile and shut his own eyes.

When he opened them back up, the sky was pinking, making the clouds glow with the shades of the impending sunset. He looked at his phone. It was almost eight, and there were two new messages from Ymir.

**From: _Ymir_  
How are you getting all this time off you ass**

**From: _Ymir_  
How do I get in on the action**

Jean snorted.

**To: _Ymir_  
you wish**

**To: _Ymir_  
i’m doing field research**

**From: _Ymir_  
What**

**From: _Ymir_  
????**

**To: _Ymir_  
ill tell you at work tomorrow**

**From: _Ymir_  
You better**

**From: _Ymir_  
We still on for drinks tomorrow night**

**To: _Ymir_  
sure**

With that, Jean stuffed his phone back into his pocket. “Marco,” he said softly, shaking his shoulder a little. Marco opened his eyes drearily and blinked up at him, looking disoriented. Jean’s chest clenched. “We should head back before it gets dark,” he murmured.

 

* * *

 

 

Back on Piazza di Spagna, Jean asked, “You wanna go have dinner? I’m starving.”

Marco nodded eagerly, and they started walking in the direction of Via del Corso.

Waiters stood in front of almost every restaurant they passed, wishing them a good evening and inviting them to eat inside. Marco almost gave in a few times, but Jean kept dragging him along. “You’d think with all the tourism around here they wouldn’t need to stand around outside asking people to eat there.”

“Well,” Marco said, “if everyone else does it, it would be stupid not to.”

Jean shrugged.

They finally stopped at one of the less crowded places. A waiter came almost as soon as they settled on wobbly chairs outside. Jean sipped on red wine while Marco dug into his pizza using a fork and a knife. “You know you can just eat with your hands,” Jean said drily. He regretted his tone immediately. It had just slipped out.

Marco glanced up at him, surprise on his face, before he dropped the silverware and grabbed a slice of pizza. Jean moved to seize his wrist and stopped himself mid-movement, holding out his hand instead before Marco could lift the food to his mouth.

“You should fold the slice in the middle if you don’t want the toppings on your clothes,” he said. “The pizza here is really thin.”

Marco gave him an amused look and rolled his eyes, but did as he was told.

“You like seafood?” he asked around a mouthful, nodding at the clams on Jean’s plate of spaghetti.

“God, no,” Jean retorted. There was a noticeable sting in his cheeks from where he’d gotten too much sun that day, but the rest of his body felt loose and relaxed. The air was clear and easy. “I hate seafood.” He leaned forward in his chair. “But I love vongole for some reason.”

“In Germany they call them venus clams,” Marco said earnestly.

“You know German as well?”

“A little.”

“Is English even your first language?” Jean had researched Jinae at work that day. Its official language was Italian, but English was fairly common as well.

Marco hesitated. “Yes?” he said. “And Italian, sort of.”

“How come?” Jean asked. He couldn't help himself, he was too curious to see what Marco would come up with. Maybe Marco would tell him some warped version of the truth. He really did want to know where he had learned to speak English like that.

“I have Italian parents,” Marco said with a wobbling smile. “But I grew up in America.”

So much for truth. “Where you from, exactly?”

“New Jersey,” Marco said after a moment, looking away. “What about you? Why is your name French?”

“Because my parents think I’m special,” Jean laughed, shrugging. He contemplated Marco’s thick black lashes, his tousled hair, then looked back down at his plate. “I think we have some French people in our family, but that was way back.”

“Where are you from in the States?”

“New York.” He wiggled his eyebrows. “Small world.”

Marco gave a small smile. “And why did you come here?”

“My boss thought it was a good idea. Rome is nice, so I’m not exactly complaining, but I do want to go back home at some point.”

“New York isn’t too shabby either.”

“No, it isn’t,” Jean agreed, swallowing.

“Is your family from New York too?”

“No, actually. I mean, I have relatives there, but I’m from Trost. I moved to New York right after college.”

“Any siblings?”

“Two of them,” Jean said, making a face. “A sister and a brother, both older. You have any?”

Marco shook his head ruefully, swallowing and dropping the hand holding his food for a moment. “No. My parents wanted more children, but they just had me. So, you know.” He gestured with his free hand. “I can’t disappoint.”

There was a slight ache in Jean’s chest that he studiously ignored. “You don’t owe them anything,” he said.

“That’s debatable,” Marco murmured, looking at the table.

A waiter came to collect their plates and Marco zealously complimented the food as the man cleared the table. Then he asked if they wanted dessert.

“Oh, si, grazie,” Marco said, beaming and paying no heed to the laminated menu his arm rested on. He chewed on his cheek for a moment. “Surprise me?” he said in English, full-on toothy smile back on his face. “Mi porti il suo preferito.” _Bring me your favorite._

The man returned his smile with equal force, and Jean rolled his eyes fondly.

“Lo stesso, grazie,” he said, shrugging. _The same, thank you._

The waiter nodded, smile decidedly less warm now, and bustled off to deal with the next table.

Jean was certain that even without his accent, just the pale, unornate curtness of his answers would give him away as a foreigner. He always tried to make sure he smiled sufficiently to make up for his glaring lack in the kind of decorative politeness that Italians liked to dress their words in. The kind that Jean was simply not fluent enough to come up with on the spot.

Italy was a lot like England that way, he thought, with its overly enthusiastic and long renditions of “Please” and “Thank you”, its numerous unspoken rules determining just how nice one had to be in any given occasion to avoid disrespect. For the English this resulted in a communication so seemingly formal at all times that it came off as stiff and distant, whereas Italians with their easy verbosity and instant familarity made the opposite impression. When Jean had first moved here, he had been startled by it, the neighbors he’d met just a second ago offering to call _anytime, no matter what_ should he encounter any problems at all, chatting away about their children and inviting him over for coffee sometime. For quite a while he had found it difficult to interpret anyone’s kindness, not knowing how to measure how much of this effusive, trademark sociability that Italy was noted for was genuine and how much of it was just etiquette. It had felt like a language everybody spoke that he’d neglected to learn.

He saw them in Marco sometimes, these ways he associated with Italy – presumably Jinae had kept some of Italy’s culture as well, along with its language – but it was much more obvious when Marco actually spoke Italian. His polite, amiable nature somehow more confident, his language florid, wordier, face more expressive and hands going off on their own. When he spoke English, he seemed to mirror Jean and his casual demeanor, the comparatively lazy lilt of his vowels and choice of words, the lack of formality.

Marco looked up as Jean studied him and then, as if reminded of something, pointed a dessert spoon in his direction. “What made you want to become an artist, Jean?”

The question came out of nowhere, but Jean didn’t mind. The artist thing hadn’t been a lie, exactly. He just didn’t earn any significant portion of his living with it. “I like painting,” he said. “And I’m good at it. That’s honestly it.”

“Fair enough.” Marco nodded. “That’s all I’d want out of a job.”

“To enjoy it?”

“Yes.”

“Well, everything has its downsides.”

Marco pursed his lips. “Sure, but some things have more downsides than upsides. Obviously.”

“Okay, so drop it if the cons outweigh the pros.”

“Who says you have that option? What about the time and effort you’ve invested, the sacrifices you’ve made, commitment… if you even have a realistic shot at anything else… promises you’ve made, other people’s expectations…”

Jean leaned forward a little and propped his face in his hand, letting out a rush of air that came out as a sigh. The motion made Marco stop. “You should write motivational speeches for endangered youth,” he said.

Marco kicked his leg under the table, and Jean’s mouth opened half in surprise, half in mock-indignation. Marco could go from calm and composed to breezy and reckless in a matter of seconds, went from carefully polite to cocky, from dignified to brash, from adult to child, and Jean couldn’t tell if he was always like this or if he was just acting out his temporary freedom as a mere mortal. Either way, he was struggling to keep up. He kicked back and Marco’s grin only widened.

An older woman from a nearby table gave them a look, and Jean straightened up immediately. Marco’s eyes met his, and he smirked. Suddenly Jean found himself teeming with the giddiness of the day. When their desserts came, he couldn’t quite figure out what he was eating – there was a lot of creme and sugar in it, at least that much he could tell – but it looked and tasted delicious. Marco’s face lit up almost comically as he dug into his portion.

They shared playful, almost shy glances over their plates as they ate, lips quirked up, the air between them buzzing with something easy and undefined. Jean sipped his sorbet, feeling light-headed, and he tried very hard to ignore that it all felt distinctly like flirting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Oppian Hill park](https://www.google.it/search?q=colle+oppio&source=lnms&tbm=isch)


	4. trastevere

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He turned to his side where Jean’s face was half-covered by his hand, eyes unfocused and wandering, sun in his hair, and he felt a little ill with desire.

Marco had never taken the subway before. He’d never been on public transportation at all, except for that one time on the bus with Jean, but that had been a short trip. It had been squeaky and cramped and not entirely comfortable, but this was something else entirely. He and Jean barely managed to squeeze through the doors of the tightly-packed mass that was the train before more people bore in after them, pushing them further into the car and close together.

“Is it always like this?” Marco asked before he could catch himself.

Jean gave a tired smile. “A lot of the time. It’s summer, we got in at one of the most popular stops, and it’s the middle of the day, so this is as bad as it gets. Believe it or not, this is nothing compared to the New York subway.”

Marco pulled a horrified expression and Jean laughed. “Stay strong,” he said breezily, nudging him in the chest, “it’s just a few stops.”

Marco nodded warily, looking off to where a group of teenagers were laughing and yelling in what sounded like Neapolitan accents, some of them sitting, the others crowding around their seats. Next to them, two old ladies were having a conversation in Spanish, while on his other side a light-haired family was speaking German.

The train swayed to a stop at Barberini, rattling a bit and sending Jean knocking into Marco. He pulled himself off and up immediately and gave him a flustered smile. Marco waved it off, smiling back.

“Which one is our stop?” he asked.

“Termini,” Jean said as a tinny voice announced they would arrive at Repubblica soon. Marco squinted at the Metro map above the seats.

“You’re going to want to hold on to your money,” Jean added. “And then we’ll have to catch the bus, so the quicker we are, the better.”

“Okay.”

“What else do you want to see during your stay? I was thinking Piazza Navona and the Pantheon and the Trevi Fountain and all the usual stuff. Do you want to see St Peters?”

Marco shrugged. “I don’t know. It’s just a church, right?”

“Thank God,” Jean sighed heavily.

Marco smirked. “You sure that’s who you want to be thanking for that?”

Jean scoffed and rolls his eyes. “The line is endless. Not Colosseum endless, _literally_ endless. It looks nice and all, but I think we can skip it.”

The car came to a halt, and Marco watched as people got off and on, the train filling back up as soon as the passengers left the car and made way for those waiting to board it.

“The Vatican Museums are pretty interesting though. We could do that at some point. If you want.”

Marco smiled mildly. “I’m fine with whatever, I’m having fun anyway. I’m having fun right now,” he added with emphasis just as someone passed by him and accidentally elbowed him in the side.

“Prossima fermata: Termini,” the voice said. _Next stop: Termini._ Jean gave Marco a meaningful look, and Marco nodded.

“What are you doing tonight?” Jean asked after a moment.

They were at their stop before Marco could speak. Jean’s eyes snapped away in the direction of the doors, and he moved to leave. Marco followed him out, dodging tourists and bored-looking people in suits and travelers wearily rolling suitcases behind them. The weather was bright, just verging on too hot. Jean led him through a broad street onto a smaller one as they chatted idly before stopping at something that Marco faintly recognized as a bus stop, where they stood in the heat, waiting.

“It’ll be another half hour or so from here,” Jean said and shrugged apologetically as they got on the bus.

“No worries.” Marco’s reply was automatic and chipper, and he smiled as he took in his surroundings. The bus was a lot emptier than the other Marco had been on, or the metro. There was an old man chewing on his nail sat to the front of the bus and two black women in suits speaking French on the other end. Marco sat down next to Jean with a weird sense of accomplishment, like using public transport was a rare skill he had finally mastered.To his right, Jean was playing Candy Crush on his phone, and Marco pulled out his own to do the same.

“What level are you on?” Jean asked without moving his eyes from the screen.

“123,” Marco said.

Jean turned around fully now, eyes wide. “No way. How did you get past 76? I’ve been stuck for weeks.”

“Which one is it?” Marco asked and peered over Jean’s shoulder. “Oh, is this the one where the ingredients just go back to the top left corner?”

“Yes,” Jean groaned, throwing his head back against the seat.

“I think I just kept trying until I had it.”

Jean handed him his phone, a pleading look in his eyes. “Try anyway.”

Marco laughed and took it, giving him his own.

“What the fuck are these bombs?” Jean asked as he frowned at Marco’s screen, and Marco failed spectacularly at helping Jean pass the level.

 

* * *

 

They got off the bus at Dandolo/Glorioso, stepping out into the mellow afternoon sunlight. For a while Marco let Jean walk first, happy to just trudge along and take everything in, the neighborhood of Trastevere stretching out in front of them. But soon he kept sidling past to look at this and that, then falling back into step. Rome was nothing like the clean cuts of Jinae, tall and dark and polished, a southern European principality that was stuck with a long obsolete royal head of state and yet, paradoxically, based its national identity on going with the times. All sleek glass walls and sharp edges, everything about it was designed to look progressive, efficient, highly modern. There was no place for the nostalgia of faded pastel facades and cobblestone that Marco stopped to marvel at as he and Jean wended their way through the maze of cobbled streets and narrow alleyways.

Marco watched absently as a woman walked her dog on the other side of the street. So far Trastevere seemed just a little more peaceful, not quite as busy as the center, although just a few kilometers away, as Jean told him.

“Do you know anyone who lives here?” Marco asked, taking in the laundry hung up across streets to dry.

 “Not really.  I don’t know anyone who could afford it, for that matter. The rent keeps going up and people move away.”

Marco frowned. “Where do they move?”

Jean ducked his head and laughed softly. “To shared flats in the lesser known parts of the center, or tiny studios on the outskirts,” he said, shrugging, an expression that read ‘what can you do’ on his face. “I don’t live in the center either.”

“Oh,” Marco said, startled. He hadn’t considered that Jean might not live as conveniently close to Piazza di Spagna as Marco currently did. He thought of how long they had taken to get from the Spanish Steps to Trastevere, and furrowed his brows. “Does it take you long to get to Spagna?”

Jean waved him off. “My workplace is pretty close, don’t worry.”

Sometimes they passed a square or a larger street, thronged with street artists and vendors and the bustle of tourists and locals alike. Then they wandered back into a winding alley that was almost empty of people and noise, escaping main routes and the crowds. The sky was a clear light blue, washing the streets with rich, vibrant tones, and Marco smiled.

Just Jean, the sunlight warming his back, and the ground beneath his shoes.

“I’m really hungry,” Jean announced into their silence.

Marco tsked softly. “Are you ever not?” he asked, softening when Jean scoffed. “Yeah, I could eat.”

Jean led them towards Piazza Santa Maria, a dainty square lined by restaurants and bars with an octagonal fountain at its center. It was full of people and chatter and music, all its curves and corners flooded with sunlight. Marco and Jean bought lunch, the plastic clock above the double doors of the bar ticking on to six P.M., and they took their food outside where they perched on the steps of the fountain and ate under the sun. A family sat to their right, clad in Jack Wolfskin from head to toe and chattering on in a Scandinavian language Marco didn’t speak, and he grinned at them cheerfully while Jean bit into his panino, uninterested.

“You said something earlier, about tonight?” Marco said when he had finished eating.

Jean stalled, fixing something behind Marco for a stiff second. “I was wondering if you had plans,” he said eventually, eyes finally meeting his.

Marco gave a faint shrug. “Not necessarily. Why, what were you thinking?”

“My friend Ymir and I were going to have drinks later, and I just thought you wanted to join us, maybe. You _should_ join us. We could just stay in Trastevere and meet her at a bar around here.”

Marco barely stopped to consider. “Sure. I’d love to.”

“Cool,” Jean said and pulled out his phone, typed what had to be a quick message to his friend, then pocketed his phone and smiled.

Jean finished his food and Marco stood up to take their wrappers to the garbage can, motioning for Jean to stay put. They sat in silence for a while, drifting off to the sounds of buskers and mingling conversations in all the languages of the world. Marco’s free hand wandered across the stonework, tracing cracks and lines in the faded grey-white steps. He turned to his side where Jean’s face was half-covered by his hand, eyes unfocused and wandering, sun in his hair, and he felt a little ill with desire. He could tell that Jean wasn’t unaffected by all this, that he too was a little awed by the jaded, radiant mess of this ancient city. They were sharing this, and the tourists around them felt it too, people who grinned and took pictures and stood and sat watching in childlike wonder. This was new to all of them, not just green, sheltered Marco. He filed the thought away to keep him company later, which made him think of home, and he made himself stop.

 

* * *

 

The bar they ended up at didn’t seem like much from the outside, a small place with patrons sat at maroon tables in the cobbled square. Jean and Marco pushed through the cluster of people that had gathered at the entrance. Inside, the bar was much more pleasant-looking, a casual enough place with dimmed lighting and wood-floors and a handsome backlit bar. They headed towards a small leather-padded booth tucked away in the corner from where a tall brunette girl was waving at them. A blonde sat next to her at the table, one arm draped along the top of the seat behind the other’s back.

“Hey,” Jean said warmly as they reached the booth. “This is Marco,” he said, gesturing towards him. “Marco, these are Ymir” – he pointed at the tall girl – “and Christa.”

Ymir’s eyes widened, something gleeful and vaguely dangerous spreading on her features. “Hey, Marco,” she said, eyeing him up and down.

Marco countered her shark grin with a disarming smile of his own. “Hi.”

She stopped fixing him when Jean slid down the booth next to her. Marco moved to sit down as well, making a quick study of the bar while Jean was busy greeting Ymir and Christa properly. It was furnished in warm wood tones, the ceiling tiled, black and white photographs crowding the walls on one side and prints and mirrors on the other. People were lounging on caramel-colored bar stools and dining around tables under wine shelves, some dressed to the nines, some simply in jeans and a button-up. The atmosphere was friendly and relaxed, and it was unlike most social events Marco had been to. Even meet-ups with peers during high school had often been stiff and formalized, everyone having money to inherit, a reputation to maintain, and a part to play. College had been easier on him, less elitist and exclusive, but not by much. He had never been able to attend just any bar, with just anyone, at any time he liked like a normal person. Jinae was a small country, very rich and very judgmental. No one wore jeans to bars.

“What do you think of Rome, Marco?” came Christa’s voice from his right, clear and high, pleasant.

“It’s great,” Marco said, turning fully to her. “Jean is showing me around, it’s been fun.”

Christa nodded with a friendly smile. With Jean still talking to Ymir – something about his work schedule – Marco kept making small talk for the moment. He was good at conversations that just brushed the surface. “How do you know Jean?”

“He works with my girlfriend,” she said, tilting her head towards Ymir.

Marco smiled absently, comforted in the knowledge that Jean evidently didn’t mind that kind of thing.

“Ready to order?” A waiter had come to their table, unnoticed, and he spoke English with an accent that sounded German, maybe.

“Vodka Martini,” Ymir said, clapping the guy on the back like she knew him. Marco assumed she did. The waiter took Jean and Christa’s orders while Marco quickly scanned the menu on the table. He settled on white wine.

As the waiter wandered to the other end of the bar, Ymir turned her full attention back to Marco, clasping her hands under her chin. Marco had a sudden image of some sinister figure from a fairytale, dancing around a fire and laughing with mischief.

“So, Marco,” she said, dragging out the words.

Jean shoved her lightly, rolling his eyes. “Stop it, Ymir.”

“I’m being nice, like I said,” she shot back, smile unwavering.

Marco cleared his throat. “So you work together?” he said, hoping to clear some of the awkwardness he felt.

“That’s the whole reason we hang out,” Jean said drily.

“Please, I’m just taking pity on your ass.”

Marco’s wine appeared in front of him, and he raised his eyes to see the same waiter fill their table with drinks.

“You’re an artist too?” Marco asked Ymir when the waiter was gone, raising his glass to his lips.

“Yes,” Jean interjected. “Yes, actually. We work for the same agency.”

Ymir gave Jean a wide-eyed look. She had a stupidly massive grin on her face when she turned her attention back to Marco. “Yes. I’m quite the artist. People buy my paintings. I have a degree from Harvard in art history and everything.”

Marco furrowed his brow, not sure what to make of her tone.

“She doesn’t,” Jean said, saving him from replying. “Run-of-the-mill illustrator, this one.”

“Well, he isn’t all that great either,” Ymir said, glaring at Jean. “I went to NYU though. That’s pretty cool. He went to some regular college in Bumfuck, nowhere.”

“And yet we ended up with the same job,” Jean mused, wiggling his eyebrows at Marco.

Christa clapped her hands once, firmly. “Shut up, everyone. Let me drink my Mojito in peace.” She turned to Marco with sympathetic eyes. “They’re obnoxious when they’re together.” Jean and Ymir didn’t attempt to deny it.

 

A few drinks later Marco was feeling pleasantly buzzed, and by the looks of it, so was everyone else.

Jean sat back further in the booth, one hand on the table and playing with a coaster.“You always look so formal,” he declared, leaning in to speak into Marco’s ear even though the music wasn’t so loud that Marco couldn’t hear. “Your back is so straight all the time.”

Marco grinned, turning his head just a bit towards Jean’s. “Well, you’re slouching. That’s bad manners.”

Jean seemed about to say something, but he just smiled instead, eyes fixed on the table, face still a fraction too close to Marco’s. They lingered like that for a moment. Moving apart didn’t seem like such an urgent matter right then, if only because Marco was buzzed, and maybe he enjoyed the smell of Jean’s cologne and the close-up view of his stubble and the heat radiating from his arm that was casually resting on top of the seat behind Marco.

“Shots,” Ymir announced, effectively interrupting the moment. A tray of white liquid in tiny glasses was placed on the table by a waitress with a ponytail. “Two for everyone.”

Jean groaned. “We have work in the morning, you lunatic.”

Marco was the first to take a glass and down it, and Jean followed, reluctantly. Ymir and Christa drank theirs enthusiastically with linked arms, complete with a peck on the lips once they were done. Jean shook his head at them, but a small smile was tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Marco nudged his shoulder with his own. “You big sap.”

“Oh shut up,” Jean said, grinning with embarrassment. “Drink your shot.” He grabbed his own drink, something blue with a straw and limes in it, and took a big gulp. “If I’m getting drunk, I might as well do it right.”

“I’m not carrying you home,” Ymir said earnestly.

“Look who’s talking,” Christa smirked at the same time as Jean raised his eyebrows and said, “I’m sorry, Ymir, _you_ ordered the shots.”

“We’re getting a taxi, anyway,” Christa reminded them gently.

“I’m not carrying him to the taxi,” Ymir scowled.

 

In ten minutes Marco had managed to lose seven games of Tic Tac Toe, which was six more than Jean. With a tiny huff of frustration he flicked the napkin they’d been playing on out of his sight. Jean sent it skidding the rest of the way across the table and turned around so his elbow was resting on the table, his other arm in his lap, and he was facing Marco. “Not used to getting your ass kicked?”

“I get plenty ass-kickings, _thank_ you,” Marco said. It came out way haughtier than intended, which made him break out in laughter.

Jean joined in, a little confusedly. “What’s so funny?”

“Nothing,” Marco said, trying to turn his laugh into a cough.

“You a giggly drunk?” Jean asked, a glimmer in his eye.

“No,” Marco said sternly. “I’m a very serious drunk. Listen, I can do anything drunk. I’ve _done_ anything drunk. Except driving.”

“Like what?”

Marco thought of all the times he’d almost embarrassed himself publicly, like when he’d had too much champagne at a party two or three years ago and just so stopped himself from telling the Prime Minister how much Marco’s mother secretly hated her. Or that time when he was sixteen and his family was hosting a dinner his father had been fussing over for weeks. His entire extended family had come, and there was a moment during the third course when he saw himself as if from a distance, a lone blurred dot of grey, swathed in a never-ending crowd of relatives. Then, in a flash of insanity, he’d felt an overpowering itch to announce that he was gay, loud enough for everyone to hear – his parents, his grandparents, his various uncles and aunts and cousins alike. Let himself say the words like it was nothing.

He had a sudden feeling like he had exposed something he should have kept to himself, and felt a weird sense of humiliation rise in his chest. He couldn’t say any of those things to Jean, of course. He was the Prince of Jinae, heir to the throne, first in the line of succession. Marco grabbed his third glass of wine and took a sip, swallowed his words, and excused himself to the bathroom, where he stood in front of the mirror and splashed his face with water. He looked down at his hands as he dried them carefully. It helped. Like most of his moods when he was drunk, it passed within a minute.

Back at the dinner, he had done the same.

He walked back to their booth with as bright a smile as he’d begun the night with. Jean was finishing his cocktail when Marco sat back down. He shifted and their shoulders brushed lightly, and Jean looked up from his drink with an expectant smile and cheery eyes, bright with bar lights. Christa asked a question – Marco really wasn’t paying attention – and Jean turned to answer. Marco’s eyes lingered on his face as he did, veered down to his lips. He shook himself out of it, stared down at the scarred wood of the tabletop instead.

Then Christa and Ymir moved to the second floor to dance, and Jean and Marco relocated to the bar where Jean ordered beers for them both.

“Never beer after wine,” Marco said half-heartedly, but didn’t object when the bartender – the one from before, with the accent – set his bottle in front of him.

Jean spun around on his stool, glanced around at the crowd and leaned forward. “What do you think of them?”

“Ymir and Christa?” Marco said.

Jean nodded.

“They’re great.” Marco wasn’t quite sure why his opinion on Jean’s friends mattered. “And very sweet together.”

Jean gave him a strange look. “You don’t mind, right?”

That startled a laugh out of Marco. “No,” he said, like it was obvious. “No, I… no.”

Jean nodded. A pleased look settled on his face. “Good.” His knees knocked against Marco’s beneath the bar.

Marco looked away, flustered, but he could feel a small smile tugging at his mouth. “Thank you, by the way,” he said out of nowhere, overcome with a sudden rush of affection.

“Hm?” Jean had his lips around the bottle. He lowered it, looking at Marco, waiting. “What for?”

“You’re spending all this time showing me Rome, and I don’t get why,” Marco said. “You’re like, such a genuinely good person.”

Jean didn’t react at first. “Ah,” he said finally, and then threw a sideways glance at nothing in particular. “Well. I don’t know. You want something to eat? I’m starving.”

“The buffet closes in ten minutes,” the bartender said, gesturing towards a table at the other end of the bar.

“Thanks, Armin,” Jean said.

They walked over. The buffet looked and smelled wonderful after their missed dinner, but there wasn’t much left – no antipasti, barely any of the main dishes, just a few leftovers among the array of salads and side dishes.

“Is Armin German?” Marco asked as he loaded baked rosemary potatoes onto his plate.

“He’s Belgian.” Jean said. “We come here a lot. He’s a nice guy.”

They moved back to their seats at the bar and ate, all the while nursing their beers, and Marco signaled Armin for two more. The food sobered them up a bit, and they made up for it by working their way through more drinks. In between beers, Jean ordered water as well – to prevent the hangover, he said. Surefire method. Marco indulged him, obediently drinking up his water before finishing off his beer.

Jean, as he discovered, talked a great deal and with a lot of emotion when he was drunk. He went on and on about his family back in New York and Trost, and Marco was content just to hear Jean speak, elbow propped on the table, face resting on his hand.

“Two of my uncles live in New York, not the city, but the state,” Jean continued, picking at a coaster again, ripping it into shreds, “and I _hate_ them. They’re terrible. They’re always finding faults with my career choices. That’s something I honestly don’t miss about New York, and I love Rome,” he paused for emphasis, “but I do want to go back at some point. It doesn’t have to be soon.” His face went soft. “My career is stagnating here. And I don’t want to be an expatriate forever, you know? You never stop feeling like you’re a guest overstaying your welcome.”

Marco nodded. “That sucks, man. Although – although you’re kind of _making_ yourself the guest if you’re always thinking about leaving,” he said, feeling as wise as he was drunk. He stopped for a moment, thought the sentence over, and a nagging feeling rose in his chest. He batted it away.

Jean inclined his head. He looked like an owl, all eyes and genuine wonder. “You’re good at that shit. At that people-reading shit.”

Marco barked out a laugh. “Okay.”

Jean shook his head and shrugged over his beer. “Whatever. Point is, I want to go home at some point, is all I’m saying.”

“I’d stay here forever.” Marco downed the rest of his beer and set the bottle back on the counter with a thud.

Jean considered him for a moment, frowning a little, but said nothing.

“Anyway,” Marco said, looking to disperse the sudden tension, “any plans for tomorrow?”

Jean made a face. “I work for most of the day, but –” He lit up. “Do you want to see Rome at night? Not like last time. Properly.”

“Yeah. That sounds fun.”

“It’s really nice. No one around, all the big sights are illuminated. So _pretty_.” Jean had a dreamy look on his face, and he slid a few inches to the left on his stool until their sides were touching. “It’s _super_ romantic.”

“Alright. Let’s do it.” Marco grinned at Jean.

Jean smirked back and twirled a little on his stool. “You know, for a spoiled kid you’re super nice.”

Marco paused, bottle halfway to his mouth. “Spoiled?”

“I mean. I _mean_. You flew here on a whim, right? On a _whim_. You’re rich, I know it.”

“I’m not spoiled,” Marco said, and he knew he was pouting. “I have a ton of responsibilities. I’ve worked my entire life. I know what work is. And, like, I do have a lot, I’m not ignoring that. I appreciate that.” Marco could feel himself gesturing wildly. “But I’m not spoiled. Not with _this_. This stuff. I’m responsible.”

“What stuff?”

“This stuff,” Marco muttered into his bottle stubbornly, pointedly taking a swig.

Jean looked on, amused. “You done?”

“Yes,” Marco said regally.

Above the noise of the bar, Jean laughed, bright and clear as day.

 

* * *

 

Instead of going straight home when they left the bar, Christa suggested they go to Ponte Sisto first, the bridge that connected Trastevere to the city center. The walk there was short, the moon a sliver of silver in the sky; the streets were bustling with people now, striding in and out of bars, standing in groups outside and chatting.

“There’s a story about some ghost that comes to that bridge at night,” Ymir said, trailing her fingers along walls as they walked. “Some woman in a black horse carriage.”

“In a burning horse carriage,” Christa corrected. “And her name is Donna Olimpia.”

“It doesn’t burn, it’s just black,” Ymir insisted, squinting at Christa.

“It’s burning,” Christa repeated. “I took the same tour as you, I would know.”

“Was that the tour where you met?” Jean asked. There was genuine curiosity in his voice, and his eyes were doing that crinkly thing they did, fondness so obvious on his face Marco almost wanted to snap a photo, commemorate it somehow.

Christa nodded, slinging an arm around Ymir’s waist as they walked, quarrel forgotten.

“You big sap,” Marco said again, and Jean glowered at him.

“I am _happy_ for my friends,” he announced with uncharacteristic sincerity. Ymir cackled.

Ponte Sisto was bright against the night sky, sprinkled with street lamps that cast streams of gold on the black of the water. Marco sighed happily and leaned against the stone railing, looked out over the river.

Jean came to stand next to him. “Like it?” he said, sounding pleased. Marco nodded and looked over. Jean’s face was glowing, tawnier than usual. A few loose strands hung into his face when he moved his head just enough to meet Marco’s eyes. There was a small grin teasing the corners of his mouth, and Marco felt something tug at his own lips as if they were synchronized. He looked away. Their shoulders brushed when he moved. His head felt cottony, the ground under his feet like it was barely there. He had some trouble stringing together a coherent thought against the faint sounds of people and music and the soft rush of cars.

“Come along, love birds,” Ymir said, walking past them. “Christa’s called a taxi.”

Ymir, Jean and Marco filed into the backseat. It was a tight fit, although the way Jean was leaning into him was probably not entirely necessary. They were pressed so close Marco could feel the shift of Jean’s arm against his own. When he reached for the seatbelt, his fingers accidentally brushed Jean's neck. Jean's hand came to rest next to his thigh and stayed there. Marco smiled, small and involuntary. He could see Jean’s face from the corner of his eye, looking serene, at peace somehow, his eyes closed.

A drawn out and for the most part incoherent discussion lead them to the conclusion that Marco lived closest. It was a matter of minutes before the car parked on the street opposite his hotel. Marco quickly leaned forward, covertly retrieved a 100 € bill from his pocket and handed it to the driver. “È abbastanza per tutti, giusto?” _That covers it for everyone, right?_

He slipped out of the taxi before the others had time to catch on and hurried across the street, stealing past a tired-looking, uninterested concierge. Upstairs his room was waiting for him, cozy and private, for no one else to see, and he barely avoided slipping on the rug as he entered. He’d left the lamp on on the table next to the bed. The sheets were in disarray, the covers dragged half onto the floor. Marco quickly stripped himself of his clothes, getting ready for a night of staring at the ceiling, his thoughts keeping him awake, and tumbled into bed. The alcohol in his blood lulled him to sleep in an instant.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Trastevere](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ceTHztIPXdo)   
>  [Piazza Santa Maria](http://www.italyguides.it/en/lazio/rome/districts-of-rome/trastevere/santa-maria-in-trastevere)   
>  [Ponte Sisto](https://www.google.it/search?q=ponte+sisto+di+notte&biw=1366&bih=667&source=lnms&tbm=isch&sa=X&ei=WJQUVbC3OcbmaszSgtAL&ved=0CAcQ_AUoAg)


	5. dolce far niente

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Marco grinned, then tossed a first coin over his shoulder with his back to the fountain. “One coin means I’ll come back to Rome one day.”
> 
> “Sure.”
> 
> “And if I throw another I’ll fall in love.” He wiggled his eyebrows.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the insanely long delay! I've been extremely busy with exams and unfortunately I will be for a while, but the next chapter is halfway written!

“You look like shit,” Ymir said the next day as she came to perch on Jean’s desk, unceremoniously plunking her empty coffee mug down on the wood.

“Likewise,” Jean said. It was noon and after three shots of espresso his brain had finally come back alive, but the rest of him was still sore and aching.

He’d been alone at the office for the most part, which meant less noise, something Jean couldn’t have been more grateful for. Levi was making him work all day. That was fine – he was getting the day off tomorrow and he would be able to catch up on some sleep after work today before he’d go pick up Marco. Jean’s chest tightened at the thought.

Ymir gave him a sympathetic pat on the back. “There there. I have a pretty abysmal headache myself, if that helps.”

“A headache is not a real hangover,” Jean grumbled.

Ymir laced her fingers on the back of her neck and looked out over the near-empty office, chewing on her lip. “So,” she said eventually. “What about that article?”

Jean gave a grunt and shrugged. “I don’t know.”

“What about that crush then?”

“Shut up, Ymir,” he said without heat. “Honest to god.”

She held up her hands with raised eyebrows, her mouth set in a close-lipped smile. “Someone’s touchy this morning.”

“It’s not morning.”

Jean pulled out his phone when she left and shot a text to Marco, telling him when he got off work and what time he could be there to pick him up. He put the phone down and stared at the desk for a moment, eyes blank, then shook himself out of it and got back to work.

The phone buzzed against the desk soon after. Jean studiously kept his eyes on the computer screen.

 

* * *

 

At 2 P.M. he got an e-mail from Levi.

_How’s your story coming, Kirschstein? Send me whatever you have._

Jean closed out of the tab and busied himself with his article for the cultural section.

Dropping the Marco article would cost Jean money he didn’t have. It would cost him Levi’s trust. It would cost him a pretty damn good opportunity. But the fact remained that he didn’t want to write about Marco. Didn’t want to interview whoever he was outside of their little bubble, didn’t want to ask him basic, impersonal questions on politics like a stranger. And he couldn’t even consider revealing this private side of Marco that he had trusted Jean with. It made him hollow with nausea.

Jean didn’t want to _ask_ him for the interview, either. He didn’t want to destroy the easy, unselfconscious rhythm they’d fallen into. It would go up in flames the second Marco found out Jean was a member of the press. Who was to say if Marco would believe a word out of Jean’s mouth after he admitted to such a thing? He didn’t want to reveal to him that he’d lied. But he didn’t want to keep lying to him, either.

He thought of what to tell Levi, circled back to _maybe, maybe there’s still a way it could work out_ , and for some reason ended up at _Marco’s leaving soon_ , and that was somehow the thought that made his chest clench painfully.

Jean took a breath, tried to regain his focus. He scooted his chair slightly to sit in the stream of window-filtered sunlight to his left and went back to researching July’s upcoming art exhibits. His phone sat next to the keyboard, untouched.

Over the course of the workday, he contemplated canceling their plans. He could stay home, let this thing they had stay exactly as it was for a night, untouched until he came up with a response to it. He considered it a few times, but always eventually dismissed it.

Canceling on Marco would change nothing. He wouldn’t know any better tomorrow. If he allowed himself to gain distance, he’d lose sight of the facts, would grow foolishly optimistic and be one step back on the way to a solution. He would miss out on a night with Marco and regret it. Marco would waste a perfectly good night in Rome – not that Jean was presumptuous enough to believe Marco couldn’t have a great time without him, he just preferred to believe it would be better with him around.

Eventually, as he packed up his things for the day and carried them to his bike, he opened Marco’s text. It was a plain confirmation of their plan. Jean clutched his bag under one arm to free his hands for texting Marco back a simple ‘Ok’, then drove home to get some rest.

Not five minutes after he’d drifted off, he jerked awake with the urgent thought that he had to set his alarm, which he did before rolling over and sleeping on.

 

* * *

 

Jean got there at half past eleven when the sky was a dark, thick blue and a grayish veil covered the city. The streets had emptied a bit, but it was early still and Friday nights were often busy. At least the daylight bustle of anxiety-packed masses was long gone.

He made a left turn and pulled into a side street where Marco was waiting on the curb in front of his hotel, one of those tall, restored buildings that Jean had probably passed more than once and thrown half a glance at, never stopping to notice details. It was one of many that lined the streets of the center like a city wall, pristine and rosy and sufficiently modern, but not enough to mess with its classic mediterranean flair. To Jean they were decorations. Beautiful to look at, nice to be around, ultimately useless. He had been in one only once or twice to ask if he could use the bathroom, but that was all the business he had in a building that screamed money.

“Have you been waiting long?” Jean asked as Marco poured himself into the car. Cool night air followed him in before he tugged the door shut. He was packed in a long-sleeved beige sweatshirt and his cheeks and ears were rosy from standing outside.

Jean was suddenly very aware of the mess around him, the parking lot stubs that littered the dashboard, the McDonald’s napkins and unused straw on the floor. He really should have cleaned the car’s interior before he set out.

“Not at all,” Marco said cheerfully and put his seatbelt on. His eyes were bright and already surveying the road ahead.

Jean huffed, tapping his fingers against the steering wheel as he swerved back into the street. “Liar.”

Marco didn’t answer. He was facing the window, eyes still glued to the lights and people outside. “Do you think it’s late enough already?” he asked when he settled back against his seat.

Jean fixed his eyes back on the road. “Sure,” he said. “Maybe not for everything, but we can work our way up.”

“Where are we going first?”

He felt compelled to hold out on the answer again, but a quick look at Marco’s eager face made him soften. “I thought we could go to the Zodiaco first,” he said. “Just to see the view.” He removed a hand from the steering wheel to scratch his chin. “What did you do today?”

“I woke up pretty late,” Marco said. “Then I just took a walk through the city, went to see the Trevi Fountain and stuff like that, and a couple of pretty squares I don’t know the names of. You?”

“I worked,” Jean said, shrugging. “And slept.”

It was mostly an uphill drive, about fifteen minutes from their starting point. Once Jean had parked, Marco clicked his seatbelt open and nearly bolted out of the car. Jean followed him and clapped him on the back with what he knew was a condescending grin. Marco merely huffed and quickened his pace.

A small restaurant was to their right, an assortment of tables outside preset with breadbaskets and the occasional couple eating gelato. Jean stepped past it into the viewing area. It was crowded with tourists and smooching teenagers. They stood at the railing amidst the odd couple and a small chattering group, although the number of visitors had thinned at this hour. Soon the place would be empty. Some guy would bring a girl here at 2 or 3 AM when everything had closed, just stand and silently look out over the city lights and maybe make out a little.

The first time Jean had seen this place, one of Christa’s Italian friends had driven them up here after a night out that Ymir and Christa had invited Jean to. They’d been the only Americans in the group, along with exchange students from all over Europe - Christa worked with Erasmus, which was how they knew each other - and some Italian colleagues of hers.

At the time, Jean hadn’t really felt the romantic appeal of this place. Now he stood up here feeling awed and maybe faintly ridiculous with this compressed version of Rome at his feet, and maybe it could be great, he thought, to come here with a person you liked, to kiss them with just the faint city rush in the distance. Maybe huddling together against the breezy night air, burying your face in his neck, a pair of hands sneaking under your jacket for warmth, bracing against your back.

He looked at Marco, the shadows across the planes of his face and his straight nose. Marco turned and met his eyes.

“Do you come here a lot?”

Jean exhaled, trying to find his balance. “This is my third time, I think.”

Marco frowned. “I’d come here all the time If I lived here,” he said.

Next, Jean took them west of the Tiber to Janiculum hill, a long ridge just above Trastevere that offered another great panorama of Rome. He parked near Piazzale Garibaldi. They crossed the paved square, past the Garibaldi statue, Marco traipsing behind and hugging his chest.

Below them, across the river, the city was a spectacle of lights.

“The Spanish Steps,” Jean said, pointing at a pale white spot. The silence was heavy up here, and the sound of his voice was startling, strange, as it cut through it.

He moved his finger to the Colosseum, the domes of Piazza del Popolo, an ancient Roman road. Marco followed the movement of his hands, eyebrows drawn together in concentration. Jean noticed a faint shiver through his frame.

“You’re cold,” he observed.

“It’s fine.”

“Did you even bring anything with long sleeves?”

Marco raised his arms. “What do you call these?”

Jean gave a slight grin and turned back to face the view. His eyes passed over the piazze and ancient landmarks below, tiny cars pursuing the streets that curved all throughout, and he said, “You should come back in August when it’s really hot at night.”

Marco didn’t answer, and Jean caught his mistake.

“You know. One day,” he added.

Marco nodded somberly. “Yeah.”

They walked back to the car in silence. Inside, Jean turned up the heat and plugged his phone in, put on a quick, cheery song and placed it on the space between their seats.

 

* * *

 

The Trevi square was deserted. It was kind of an imposing sight after the slim streets that had led them there. Marco looked a little stunned at the empty piazza, and Jean grinned to himself. The fountain filled out most of the square, and the view of the marble sculptures at its back center was completely clear, water pouring soundly, smoothly past the tangle of statues without the chatter of tourists and the noises of daytime to drown it out.

“You know who lives there?” Marco asked, pointing at the palace that served as the fountain’s backdrop.

“I don’t think anyone does,” Jean said, squinting at the facade, the Corinthian pilasters and stone arch in the middle. “I think it’s office spaces? Probably not even that. Some institution must own it.”

In a sudden move, Marco turned around, away from the fountain, and started digging through his pockets. “I forgot to throw a coin in today,” he clarified when Jean raised a skeptical eyebrow at him. The night lights lit him up like some fantastical creature.

“Here,” Jean said and handed Marco some of his own change after watching him rummage through his various pockets to no avail.

“Does it still count if it’s not my money?”

Jean cocked his head at him. “I guess you’ll just have to risk it.”

Marco grinned, then tossed a first coin over his shoulder with his back to the fountain. “One coin means I’ll come back to Rome one day.”

“Sure.”

“And if I throw another I’ll fall in love.” He wiggled his eyebrows.

“I don’t think that was a thing before Hollywood,” Jean argued.

Marco rolled his eyes. “Just go with it, Jean.” The second coin splashed loudly on the water as he spoke. Then he readied his hand to throw another and said, “This one means marriage.”

“Isn’t it marriage to a Roman?”

“Whatever.”

They revisited the Spanish Steps after, grinning dumbly, sheepishly as they sat where they first met, sharing creamy cannoli between them.

“I could eat a huge fucking plate of pasta right now,” Jean said with a sigh as they walked back to his car.

“Me too.”

Jean turned to face Marco with a grin.

 

* * *

 

Jean’s apartment was small and muted with scarce furniture, a TV and a few bookshelves that lined the faded white walls. He gave Marco a tour, which didn’t take long given the lack of rooms to show him around. In the kitchen, their last stop, Jean rolled up his sleeves and moved to dig through the fridge for ingredients while Marco settled in one of the four chairs around the table.

“Do you cook?” Jean asked, genuinely curious if a prince even knew how to handle a stove. Maybe if cuisine was his rich people hobby or something.

“No,” Marco said, as expected. He tapped his fingers on the lace runner across the tabletop, a gift from Jean’s mother that he had taken to Italy with him. “Are you good at it?”

“I manage. I can make a few dishes. They’re nothing special, though.” Jean retrieved two pots from one of the cupboards and filled one with water. “You okay with just spaghetti and red sauce?”

“Absolutely,” Marco said in that stilted, tremendously polite way that sometimes creeped into his speech. _Absolutely. Fantastic. Brilliant._

“Absolutely,” Jean echoed and threw Marco a quick smile.

“How can I help?”

“No need, it doesn’t take much. I just have to throw sauce in a pot,” he said as he did, “and boil some water for the pasta. Just wait and stir, that’s the whole story.”

“Show me,” Marco said simply.

He got up and came to stand at the stove. Jean rolled his eyes. “Alright. So, this is a gas stove. Which is pretty typical for Italy, not so much for Americans. Press down on this,” he said as he moved Marco’s hand to a small black button, “while I turn these knobs.” He lit up the stoves under both pots. “You can let go now. Grab the salt?” Marco pulled open the cupboard Jean was gesturing at and retrieved a little box. “Alright, now grab a little – no, more – and just fling that in the water. Okay. Put the top on it.” Jean grabbed some salt himself and sprinkled it over the sauce before turning to lean against the counter, half-resting on it with his arms crossed. “Now it’s really just waiting around.”

“For what?”

“For the water to boil.” Jean gave a little laugh.

Marco rested his back against the wall, looking just a little shy and out of place. “And how do you know when it’s done?”

“Uh… well, you check until you see bubbles. And sometimes you stir the sauce.” He half-turned to do just that.

Marco watched his hand, looking more restful now as he followed his movements with his eyes. “Your apartment is nice.”

Jean snorted. “Come on, Marco. We both know--” He stopped himself and felt a deer-in-headlights expression creep onto his face. “We both know,” he continued awkwardly, “that it’s very small.”

Marco frowned, an amused tilt to his lips. “But it’s very nice. Minimalistic.”

Jean outright laughed at that, and Marco grinned at him, turning around to face him and lean his hip against the counter.

“I don’t have champagne,” Jean said, “but I have wine. You like wine, Marco?”

“Sure.”

“Red or white? I’m afraid it doesn’t get any more refined than that in my kitchen.” Jean turned to stir the pasta again.

“Red.”

“What, really?” Jean said, making a face. “I mean, I have red, but just for appearances..”

“You have obviously never had good red wine,” Marco said half-heartedly as he shifted to move the spoon around in the sauce.

“That is very possible,” Jean retorted, watching Marco’s actions and nodding along absently.

“Number one on the list of things that _I_ can show _you_.”

“There’s a whole list?”

“There’s a list.”

“Can’t wait to hear the rest of it.” Jean shut off the stove with the sauce on it.

When the water boiled, he emptied half a bag of spaghetti into the pot and showed Marco how to let the pasta get soft before submerging it in the water completely.

“Now you wait as long as it says on the bag. In this case, eleven minutes.” He set the timer on the oven and moved to get plates and forks out of the cupboards, placing them deftly on the counter, before fishing two wine glasses out of the mess of dishware and handing them to Marco, who accepted them with a questioning look on his face. Jean opened the drawer to the right of his kitchen and crouched down to look at his miserable selection of liquors and beer and, wedged farther in the back, a few bottles of wine.

There was something unreal and exhilarating about knowing he was about to serve dollar store wine to a billionaire prince. He shook his head, then turned to check the time on the oven. Half a minute. Eventually he settled on a red he didn’t hate – not that he could taste the difference, anyway – and placed it on the counter before walking over to check the pasta. Satisfied, he poured the sauce from its pot onto the spaghetti, turned the stove off and started to scoop pasta onto their plates.

Balancing food, wine, a corkscrew and glasses in both hands, they moved into the living room and sat down on the couch. Marco set their empty glasses on the floor where Jean had put the bottle of wine. Jean grabbed the remote from where it sat on the couch and switched the TV on, then drew his legs close to his chest on the couch and balanced his plate on them.

He turned to look at Marco, who was somewhat stiff as always, legs on the floor, plate clutched in his hands sort of forlornly in mid-air. Jean resisted the urge to roll his eyes and said around a mouthful of spaghetti, “I won’t throw you out if you slouch a little.”

Marco blinked, then set the plate on his legs and let himself lean back into the cushions. He was still the epitome of composure next to Jean’s lazy sprawl, but it was better than nothing.

Jean leaned forward to unscrew the cork from the bottle and filled their glasses once he was done, taking a decent swig of his own before setting it back down on the floor.

He watched as Marco neatly rolled spaghetti up on his fork and asked, “How’s the food?”

Marco looked up and some flip seemed to switch, change something minute in his posture, the set of his shoulders, and he grinned. He slouched further back into the couch and crossed his legs, slurped the spaghetti from his fork and said, “You have sauce on your cheek. Just fine, by the way, thank you.”

Jean wiped both cheeks with the backs of his hands. “Better?”

Marco shrugged. “Maybe.”

Jean scoffed around a smile. He turned his head to watch the screen for a while. Some Italian crime show was playing.

“I don’t get it,” Marco said. “Is he a police offer?”

“I think he’s, like, a crime-solving forest ranger.” Marco frowned, and Jean chuckled. “The same guy plays a crime-solving priest on a different show.”

Marco burst out laughing, coughing around his food. “How does that work?”

“I’m not sure, I barely understand what they’re saying,” Jean confessed, and that just made Marco laugh harder, his head falling back against the couch. Jean couldn’t help but join in.

An hour later, they were both well on their way to being pleasantly buzzed. Every time Jean glanced over, Marco had sunk deeper into the cushions. A faint rosy blush colored his cheeks. One of them must have changed the channel at some point because the TV was now playing a repeat of some sort of game show that Jean barely understood the rules of, but he couldn’t remember when or why. He hadn’t intended to drink more than a glass, really, but he was just drunk enough to admit to himself that maybe he was glad of the excuse to be less guarded around Marco.

“Marco.”

“Hm?”

“If you could have _any_ job in the world,” he drew out the ‘any’, making a wavy motion with his hands, “what would you want to do? What would you be?”

Marco thought it over for a second, then tipped his head, lips pursed, and said, “I don’t know, I think I’m fine with what I have. Or will have.”

“Play along, Marco. If you had the _choice_ ,” Jean could feel himself speaking with a lot of emphasis and enthusiasm, about as subtle and elegant as a cult leader on cocaine, as he was prone to do when drunk, “what would you _most_ love to do?”

“Well, then I’d be a wizard or a fairy godmother or something,” Marco said without hesitating.

“Okay, hold on a second now. If we’re gonna do the paranormal thing, I wanna be a fairy godmother too.”

Marco smirked, then asked, “And realistically? No, not – you know what I mean. If you had to choose an _earthly_ profession.”

After a pause Jean said, “I’d want to be an artist, I guess? Like, a different kind, a bigger one. An artist that gets to choose the art he wants to do and gets paid for it too. One that gets to do things and travel places.”

Marco hummed. “That sounds nice.”

Jean didn’t reply, waiting for Marco’s answer.

“I’d like,” Marco said eventually, “something with responsibility. Something that gives me a sense of purpose or something.”

“Alright, you’re getting way too philosophical on me now.”

“Suck it up,” Marco said, and Jean gasped dramatically. “I want to do some good,” he continued without segue, “and it has to matter. You know, politics without the charades.”

Jean sat for a minute, impressed despite himself. Still he said with some levity, just to keep the conversation going, “So you’re saying that if you got to take your pick of all the jobs in the world, you’d be a _nice politician_.”

Marco pretended to think on it for a second, then said, lightly, “Well, the work days are short and you get a lot of days off.”

Jean offered a confused grin. “I don’t even think that’s true.”

They settled back into silence, eyes on the television, and Jean was almost starting to drift off when Marco piped up again.

“All I’m saying is I’d want to help. And make, like, a large scale difference. Instead of pretending to.”

Jean scoffed. “People who say that usually just have a massive savior complex.”

Marco’s face flew open. His eyes rested on Jean’s face for one startled moment before he looked away. “That’s a little presumptuous.”

“I’m not saying that’s you, just. I hate when people say that. Like, _oh, I want to help people. My life doesn’t suck so that’s clearly because I’m amazing. Just gotta go help the poor dumb regular folk who just don’t know how not to suck_.”

Marco thought that over. “Okay. Yes. But that’s just one type of person. I’m not any better than the rest. I just have, like, opportunities and means to achieve something.”

“Yeah, but that’s what I’m saying, lots of people would take that to mean that you’re better. Lots of people in your position would believe it.”

“I know, I get it. But if they’re in a position to help, they should want to help, don’t you think?”

Jean frowned. “Yeah.” He rubbed a hand over his face. “Sorry, I don’t even know what we’re arguing.”

Marco smiled, shrugged. “Believe me, I know what you’re saying. But that’s not what I want. I don’t care about the power behind it, or being known for it, I just want to _contribute_. I want to be useful. I feel like I’m just some kind of… mascot, or something. I don’t even need to be in charge. I’d just like to be working for something, or someone, I believe in. It would be so much easier if politics weren’t such a damned… show for the masses.”

“You want to matter.”

Marco shrugged again, embarrassed. “I guess.”

“You wouldn’t care about recognition,” Jean continued, disbelief more apparent in his voice than he’d intended.

“I’d much rather do without it, man. Just fuck all the public stuff. Fuck all that. I’d want freedom.” He paused for a moment, then said, “Jean. Do you drink coffee?”

Jean, still struck by the fact that he’d just witnessed Marco swearing, laughed a little and dropped his head to Marco’s shoulder. Whoops. He smelled nice, like clean laundry. “Why?”

“Do you?”

“Sure, why?”

Marco sighed and said, “I just really want a latte right now.”

Jean sat up straight, stretching to look at the clock on his wall. “It’s four A.M. You sure you want coffee?”

Marco sighed again. Jean laughed softly.

“Wait, maybe I have decaf.”

His head spun a little as he heaved himself off the couch, and he couldn’t be more thankful for the fact that he had the day off tomorrow. Then it occurred to him that it was almost morning, he was drunk, and he hadn’t driven Marco back to his hotel.

“Oh,” Jean said from the doorframe that led to the kitchen, feeling heat rise to his cheeks, “uh, Marco. I sort of. I sort of forgot I had to drive you home.”

Marco stirred, frowning. “Home? Oh.” He shrugged and smiled. “So did I. Don’t worry about it. I can just call a taxi.”

Jean considered offering him the couch, but the mere thought terrified him. He couldn’t tell a prince to sleep on his ratty furniture. “I’m really sorry,” he offered helplessly.

“Don’t be. How’s my latte coming?”

“It’s coming.” Jean foraged the cupboards until he found what he was looking for. “You lucked out, I found the decaf,” he called into the living room.

Five minutes later, he returned to the living room with two tall glasses of milk and coffee in hand. They sipped their beverages in comfortable silence as they watched the screen absently. Before too long, Jean’s eyes fell closed.

 

* * *

 

It couldn’t be much later when he startled awake from where he’d been resting with his head against Marco’s arm. The game show was still on and Marco was sound asleep next to him, hugging a cushion, face half-pressed into it. Jean’s breath caught in his chest.

Marco’s phone lay on the couch next to him, unguarded.

Jean shook his head and got up quietly to fetch a thin blanket from his bedroom and threw it over Marco. His features were slack and relaxed, pink lips parted slightly. Jean stalled for a moment to watch Marco’s rib cage rise and fall, a feeling in his chest that he was not eager to identify.

He passed a hand over his face and went to bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No links this time, but if you're interested in the views, you should google "Zodiaco Roma" or "Gianicolo"!
> 
> The belvedere dello Zodiaco is just a cute little place atop a hill next to some sort of planetarium, which is where it gets its name from. It's also known as "vialetto degli innamorati" (lover's avenue). It's all a little corny. But the view is nice.

**Author's Note:**

> [tumblr](http://jeannkirschstein.tumblr.com/)


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